


Making a move

by liionne



Series: The Frog Prince [2]
Category: Keane (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:34:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weather outside was dismal. The sky was a dingy grey colour, the leaves were falling from the trees and landing on the too-long too-wet grass in damp rusty orange clumps. The patio doors were beaded with rain that had fell not so long ago, and they were pushed down the glass to the earth by the blustery winds that battered at the pane, demanding to be heard, to be felt. Tim stared through square glasses at it. It was depressing weather to look at. It was perfect weather for writing songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making a move

Tim had never been the one for first moves. Out of himself, Tom and Richard, Tom had always been the one to put the first foot forward and make a stand, make a decision or make a move. He was bold as he was decisive, and the combination of the two qualities meant that he was a good leader. He was a front man in more than one way.

But today, looking out of the dirty patio doors at the dingy September back garden, he knew he had to be the one to take the first step. Because no matter how brave or bold Tom was, he wasn't going to do it.

Or maybe, Tim worried, he didn't  _want_ to do it. And thinking he wouldn't was worse than thinking he couldn't.

The weather outside was dismal. The sky was a dingy grey colour, the leaves were falling from the trees and landing on the too-long too-wet grass in damp rusty orange clumps. The patio doors were beaded with rain that had fell not so long ago, and they were pushed down the glass to the earth by the blustery winds that battered at the pane, demanding to be heard, to be felt. Tim stared through square glasses at it. It was depressing weather to look at. It was perfect weather for writing songs.

But was it perfect weather to take the first step?

With a sigh, Tim turned in his swivelly-chair to face the desk. It was just one of those days; there would be no recording, no beat, no audience. Just Tom and Tim, a lyrics sheet and a piano, one teaching the other how the song was supposed to sound, because a melody just couldn't be picked up from printed word. One would sing, and then the other would try. Tim could always imagine how Tom's voice would sound as he wrote a song. He barely heard his own voice anymore, even when he was singing aloud. Everything was Tom. And that was how he liked it.

The front door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps and a lot of huffing and puffing filled the empty room. A small smile came to Tim's lips, and he tapped his pen against the paper as he waited. Seconds, and a wind-swept Tom fell into the room, with rosy cheeks and a bright smile.

"Hiya," He grinned, stood in the doorway with his scarf still wrappe around his neck.

"Hello," Tim smiled back. He gently kicked the swivel chair on the other side of the desk, sending it scooting slightly towards Tom.

Tom grinned, pulled his scarf off, and sat down. Immediately he began to sway slightly from left to right in a motion that Tim found to be soothing rather than distracting. He was a ball of pure energy, never could keep still, never could be changed or stopped. He kept going regardless of anything or anyone. Anyone except Tim.

"What's it called?" He asked, spinning the sheet round to face him, his eyes scanning the lyrics quickly.

Tim shrugged. "Doesn't have a name yet."

"They never do at the beginning," Tom muttered, as if to himself, but it made Tim smile.

"Like it?" Tim asked. He hoped he liked it.

Tom wasn't finished. He read the words as poetry, rather than lyrics, seeing as to him, the words as yet had no melody. No meaning. They were simply words until he was finished, until he had thought about it, and until he looked up at Tim and said, "A lot."

Tim grinned. He stood up, and stepped towards the piano at the side of the room, pressed up against the stormy blue wall with the peeling wall paper. He lifted the case of the piano up, setting the oak gently against itself. It wasn't the nicest piano, didn't produce the best sound, but it had been a present from the one closest to Tim, bought second hand on a student's budget, and Tim had loved it for every day he had owned it. He looked at the scribbled music on the paper that had been left on the top of the piano, and he began to play.

He played for a while, experimenting even when teaching, and then sang the first line of the song. His voice was wobbly, not perfect or strong or loud like Tom's, but it was soft, and folky, and it was the type of colloquial voice that just worked. Tom gave it some thought, allowed Tim to play the line again, and then he song, carrying the words off into improvisation, his own mind running away with Tim's words and make them more beautiful than their creator imagined they ever could be.

They were two verses in when Tim stopped. He had been avoiding taking his first step, being a man, so to speak, using the song and their practise to hide behind. But now he realised, as Tom had forced him to scoot along, his voice still carrying Tim's words, and their hands had touched. He stopped dead in the middle of a note, dropping his hands into his lip. He looked at Tom, and Tom, startled looked back at him.

And then he kissed him.

It was so quick it almost never happened. He was soft, pressing his lips so gently to Tom's that had he not been paying attention he may not have noticed. And then he was bolt upright, looking at Tom with wide blue eyes, looking for some sort of approval.

Tom, who had been scared of making this move himself for fear of rejection, pressed a cold fingertip to his lips. He swallowed once, looked at Tim, and then opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. So instead, he made the next move.

He leaned forward, taking Tim's stubbled chin in both hands as he pressed their lips together with fevorish passion. They moved in sync, as Tim placed his hands on Tom's back gently but firmly, holding him in place to keep him steady, to keep themselves connected. Any space between them was removed, any sound was muted, any distraction put firmly behind them till there was nothing but them, then, together.

And then they parted, gasping for breath with flushed cheeks. They rested their foreheads against each other, pressed gentler, quicker kisses to one another's lips. And then, ever so slowly, they pulled back to regard each other.

"Like it?"

"A lot."


End file.
